Tied
by The Readers Muse
Summary: The tug on his rib cage was firm – persistent - grating. It took everything he had not to stumble over to her. Knowing instinctively that the moment he got close, the moment he had her in his arms, everything would stop. Everything would make sense again. Everything would be different - better. But he didn't. He couldn't.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself. *This is dedicated to bsparrow who told me this would be a good idea. This is entirely her fault even though, technically, it was my idea in the first place, but since she got all proddy I feel like I have the right to blame this one on her. Ha!

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more.

**Tied**

_**Chapter One**_

They'd barely made it out of Atlanta when the military started dropping napalm in the streets. Someone had fucked up. They'd lost it – lost containment. It'd only been a matter of time if you asked him. The refugee camps had been too crowded, people crammed in like fuckin' sardines from the downtown core to the suburbs. Someone had gotten bit. And by the time the government knew the shit had hit the fan, it was already too late.

Merle hadn't taken his foot off the gas pedal until they were a good five miles from the outskirts. They were close enough to feel the heat of it when they pulled over to the side of the road, letting a convoy of jarheads streak past, breathing hard at the near miss.

Merle didn't say anything when the screaming started - a rolling nightmare chorus that rose up despite the distance – a swan song as Atlanta burned. But the cigarette his brother flicked away, only half smoked, seemed indication enough as he rolled up the window and drove off, hiding the city from view as the rising flames bathed the night in red.

They drove for hours before they saw it, a hole-in-one flicker of flame through the trees on the very top of a mining quarry just outside the city limits. He'd cocked his head, unsure of what to make of the sudden burst of nervous energy that'd started thrumming deep in his chest. _Survivors from Atlanta?_ They looked at each other and just shrugged, it seemed like as good a spot as any – at least for the night.

He rubbed at the center of his chest idly, only half paying attention as Merle followed the curve of the road, watching as the spit of flame grew brighter through the trees. _Someone was up there alright._

As it turned out, the fates didn't even have the decency to wait until he'd gotten out of the god damned truck. Because by the time he'd hefted his crossbow, headlights illuminating a dinky little camp, all frightened eyes and hedging uncertainty, he was already too far gone.

"What the fuckin' _shit_?" he wheezed, clawing at his chest as a bright searing pain thrummed across his skin. He stumbled, fading off to the side and firmly into the shadows as someone said something, asking Merle god knows what. He didn't care. He couldn't hear it.

He leaned against the truck hitch. He braced his hands on his knees, bow slipping from his fingers as his skin _buzzed _– suddenly feeling three sizes too tight as a curl of heat escaped from the center of his chest. _He didn't understand, what-_

There was a roaring in his ears, deafening and bright as Merle laughed, cracking out something about stayin' the night as the sensation suddenly changed. He shivered, oversensitive as something stupidly similar to pleasure, of all things, rippled through him. It was light and bubbly, happy in a way he didn't have it in him to recognize. It was familiar, yet not.

He shook his head, dizzy, fighting the urge to either puke or laugh himself sick - caught up in a conflicting shit storm of a thousand different emotions as Merle called out, footsteps crunching through the gravel, starting around the side of the truck.

"Yo, little brother! Come on out and meet our hosts, don't be shy now," Merle gestured, voice drippin' with sarcasm and false bravado as his hand, beefy and heavy, slapped across his back, pulling him towards the fire as a couple dozen people gathered close – curious.

He flinched, chest throbbing, fighting the urge to whirl around and just _run _as twin sensations of pain and pleasure hummed through him. _Music to the soul._

That was when he saw her.

And honestly? The world just fucking _stuttered_.

An ember burned high and insistent in his breast, etching a mark he knew he'd find later, deep in his skin as they met eyes. They were oblivious to everything as a group of men, an old man in a bucket hat and a dude sporting a Mossberg and a suspicious look, tried to press Merle for information.

_Had they seen anything? Heard anything about another safe zone? Had the government gotten things back under control?_

Her blue eyes were wide, almost sloe-eyed in the low light. He couldn't help but stare. She was perfect, thin, but with just enough curve to her you wouldn't lose her when she stood sideways. She was a mess of shorn hair and freckle-flecked skin - scared, but strong.

The tug on his rib cage was firm – persistent - _grating_. It took everything he had not to stumble over to her. Knowing instinctively that the moment he got close, the moment he had her in his arms, everything would stop. Everything would make sense again. Everything would be different - better. But he didn't. _He couldn't._

She knew it too.

He could see it. _Feel it_. Taste it on the fuckin' air.

Because she was staring at him from the other side of the fire, blue eyes shining with unshed tears as she clutched at the little sprite of a thing she held in front of her. A little girl that had her eyes – her chin and nose – her _everything. _Her expression was confusion, anguish and hope all at once and he already knew he_ hated_ everything about it.

He didn't even fucking _know_ her.

Her husband just glared, bored and oblivious in a camp chair beside them. Sporting an ugly look like it was bound to go out of style as tall woman – Lori, he thought – came up beside her, a questioning hand resting on her shoulder as the moment broke and he came back to himself in a rush.

His cheeks heated – mortified and angry as the gravity of his situation settled across his aching shoulders like twin iron weights.

_Wasn't this just fuckin' peachy?_

He managed to get a look at it in the old man's RV a few hours later. The light from his lighter was thin and flickering but it was enough to illuminate the small mark now etched into the center of his chest, just above his heart.

He wasn't sure what to think when he recognized it.

It was the thin outline of a Cherokee rose.

He winced when he reached up, thumbing one of the pedals, all grey-toned shading and glistening dew drops, sensitive flesh screaming as he bit off a startled curse. The mark caught the light easily, twisting and flexing every time he breathed. He shook his head, letting his hand fall away, shoving the lighter back into his pocket as his reflection spluttered, wisping back into darkness as the shadows welcomed him back.

_He could feel it. _

_He could feel the weight of it._

_Of her. _

He sat down on the toilet seat with a grunt, running his hands through his hair as the sounds of the others winding down for the night drifted lazily through the vents. He'd really stepped in it this time. That was for god damned sure.

He had fucking soul mate.

Worse, she was god damned _married._

And really, he wondered if he even had the right to be surprised. Since when had anything in his life ever come easy?

* * *

><p><strong>AN #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Depending on interest, I will probably continue this. Like I said, this was a bit of an experiment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, violence, blood, gore, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more.

**Tied**

_**Chapter Two**_

Modern medical science had never really been able to explain it. And personally, he didn't think they were trying too hard, either. It edged just a bit too far into that pseudo-spiritual bullshit that science had spent most of the dark ages actively trying to avoid.

It just kinda, well, _happened_.

Soul bonds were rare, but not unheard of. As far as he understood it, back when royalty and powerful families were more of a thing, soul bonds were often present. They followed some of the better known bloodlines through the ages, coupling together powerful houses and helping form alliances outside of kin and country.

The only thing was that soul bonds didn't just stay up in rich town. Sometimes they struck at random and you ended up having a prince – picture some pompous asshat with a narcissistic complex bonding with the lovely peasant girl that mucked out his horse's stables. Other times you were left with some something a bit more complicated. The recent scandal in the White House for example – a president soul-bonding with his new male chief of staff on live television was definitely one for the history books, if you were askin' his opinion.

Maybe now they'd pass that stupid law everywhere and just be done with it.

A bond didn't appear until you were in the presence of your true mate and not everyone had one. That was pretty much it as far as he knew. Either way, it was a crap-shoot. There was no rhyme or reason to it. And if anyone told you different, they were probably selling something.

He didn't realize the bastard was laying his hands on her until one morning, about a week later, when he woke up to a handful of bruises splayed across his chest and the span of his hips. They were fresh, red and angry and he went from being half-awake to half-homicidal in about three point eight seconds flat.

Rage had burned quick and high as he'd kicked himself out of his blankets. He was yanking on his jeans and throwing yesterday's shirt over his head before he'd even made the conscious decision to move, bile threatening to rise in the back of his throat as he all but _threw _himself out of his tent.

Carol was nowhere to be seen when he kicked himself free, untangling himself from the cheap vinyl as Lori and Jacqui tended to something around the fire. But her husband was, smoking one of those nasty ass hand-rolled cig's he mainlined like oxygen, leaning up against the back of their station wagon. And for the first time since he'd arrived, he was grateful for it.

He hit Ed running, taking him down in a tangle of wind-milling arms and flailing feet. The stupid ass hadn't seen it coming, he hadn't even been looking. He felt the heat of the man's cigarette sear across his cheek as they rolled part way down an embankment.

He got in a solid hit before Ed kicked him away, clumsy but built, enough to make him pause and reassess. His lip curled when the man levered himself up, swearing, fists up like he was lookin' for a fight. He spat on the ground, tipping back his head and gesturing for the man to do his worst. He'd grown up with Merle for an older brother. This shithead was child's play.

And just like he knew he would, Ed took the bait, hook, line and sinker. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion as the man flew at him – zero finesse and brute strength all jumbled up into one very unattractive package. But instead of stepping out of the way, he absorbed it, using the man's momentum to flip them _both_ backwards.

His bare feet curled in the dirt as he skidded, one hand shooting out for balance before he was on him again. He dug his knee into the man's soft gut, pinning him down as he started laying in on him. Ed's face split under his fists, malleable and soft, a churning mess of blood, teeth, and snot as the man whimpered somewhere underneath him.

_Feels different, don't it? Being on the other end of the fist?_

He figured it was a testament to everyone's feelings when no one pulled him off right away. He could feel the others closing in, skirting around the backdrop – yelling. Shane, Morales Jim, even the kid, Glenn. But no one made a move to stop him. He bared his teeth, knocking Ed's head against the ground, hissing as he felt one of the bones in his cheek snap.

They were waiting.

They knew the bastard deserved this.

And honestly, he couldn't seem to stop himself.

He raised the man up by the collar, hands slick with red as Ed's faced dipped and weaved – going in and out of focus as a strange fog rose up in the back of his mind. _It felt like blood lust, like the right decision but an overreaction_. Confusion rose up, questioning even as Ed muttered something unintelligible. But then Carol's face flittered through his mind's eye and he remembered.

"You don't touch her, you hear me!" he snarled, "one more bruise, one more _fucking _scrape and I'm comin' for you, understand?" Ed's head bobbled, automatic despite the fact that the bastard's eyes were tightly closed.

"Look at me you little _bitch_!" he growled, crooked fingers curling around the man's windpipe as bloodshot red fastened on his face, pleading and unworthy. His fingers tightened, biting down on the inside of his cheek as the man gurgled, hands slapping at him desperately.

_She isn't yours._

_You don't deserve her._

_Mine._

"Christ, alright, he's had enough!"

"Daryl,_ stop!_"

Shane and Morales hauled him off, dragging him a few meters away before he kicked out and shook himself free. He rolled his shoulders, shrugging off any unwanted hands as Jim and Glenn kept their distance, looking sick and conflicted as Ed coughed up a mouthful of blood behind him, moaning.

He sneered. _Pathetic._

The others just watched, wary as he turned around, glaring right back at them. Daring them to say he _hadn't_ done anything they hadn't thought about doing a hundred times. It had been a long time comin' and not one of them could deny it. They'd needed someone to take out the trash, someone who wasn't afraid of getting their hands dirty. And if that meant it came down on him, so-fucking-be-it.

He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved when they let him go, saying nothing when he snorted and stalked off, grabbing his shoes and crossbow before disappearing into the treeline.

_Fuck 'em._

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – I'm so glad everyone is enjoying! There will be more to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more.

**Tied**

_**Chapter Three**_

He gritted his teeth, bloody fists clenched tight into his palms as he pushed his way through the green. He wasn't aware of the sting as branches whipped across his skin, nor of where he was heading as he stomped through the underbrush. He was just, _walking._

No, he was shaking; losing it, there was no other word for it. Adrenaline and rage were coiling together like a sickness in his gut. _What was happening?_ _Why had he-_

He shuddered, feeling her fear, distantly aware that she was somewhere close. He heard Lori call out to her, beckoning her away from the tent they'd dumped him in, and he couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking. He hadn't even thought about it. He'd just lost it. Even now, just the thought if it – of Ed putting his hands on her-

A twig snapped behind him.

He whirled, buck knife unsheathed - glinting.

Dale stopped dead a few feet behind him, holding up both hands, disarming and harmless if not for the rifle hanging from his shoulder.

"It's just me, son."

He relaxed, barely.

He wasn't sure what to make of it when the old man followed him, apparently making a point of not taking the hint as he shouldered through a circle of twisted pines. His boots sunk, squishing unpleasantly in the mossy ground as the sound of a river – a small reedy little inlet – burbled in the background.

"You want to talk about what just happened?" Dale asked, cautious but far too familiar for his liking.

"Nothing to talk about," he grunted, stopping at the edge of the stream, keeping his eyes on the ground. He'd been meaning to get a handle on the game around here and now seemed as good a time as any. The others were digging their heels in for the long haul, figuring that waiting for things to blow over was the best course of action for the time being.

He wasn't convinced, but if they were stickin' around he might as well try for something bigger than a brace of squirrel. He'd seen deer tracks; he could probably try for one in the next few days if the weather was right. Supplies were low and they could use the meat. They were already talking about taking a group into Atlanta for supplies. Risky shit, but probably necessary, they were low on just about everything.

"That didn't look like nothing to me," Dale returned, adjusting the strap of his rifle as he eyed him quietly – measuring. The scrutiny rankled him enough to reply.

"Climb out of my ass man, didn't see y'all doing nothing about it. Figured someone had to step up," he glared, "wasn't like 'ya didn't know what was goin' on." He was trying for flippant but failed somewhere along the line when the words came out far more sullen than he'd intended.

He flicked his hands in front of the man's face for emphasis - angry. "…You know, do _something_." The spark in his chest hummed, as if in agreement.

"That's not what I asked." Dale's reply was almost insultingly fast, cutting right past the point he'd been trying to make and diving right back into the confusing shit. His hackles rose. The old man wasn't going to let this drop.

He was about to stalk away when the geezer stopped him in mid-stride. "…Because, if you asked me, that looked a whole lot like soul bond to me."

He managed to save face but barely, masking his shock and surprise with derision as sweat trickled down from his temples, slicking through his hair as his breathing took on a sharp edge. He tried to imagine the look on the old man's face as he kept his back to him, trying to regain some semblance of control before he heard himself bite out a handful of words.

"Well, no one asked you, did they?"

The man's sigh was audible, frustrated, but kind. If anything, it only served to make him angrier.

"I don't pretend to know what you're about, son. But I can pretty much guarantee that I'm probably the only person here that you can talk to about it."

"You don't know nothin'," he hissed, rounding on him; face a mask of gritted teeth and barely tempered rage. His chest throbbed. His hand rested there reflexively, only dropping when he realized the man's gaze had followed it – fixated just above his chest where the mark simmered. His shoulders hunched, protective.

"Maybe, maybe not," Dale replied, tilting his head as he took him in, "but I know enough to know that what you're doing to yourself is all kinds of foolish."

A growl rumbled in the back of his throat as he faced off with the older man, fixing him with a glare that would have sent a lesser man running. But Dale just stared back, unimpressed.

"Care to share with the class?" he finally snapped, trailing off with wheeze as a sudden burst of – _something _– burbled up from the center of his chest – sending his mark throbbing. She was close. _Was she looking for him?_

Distracted by the thought, it wasn't until the man raised his voice, that he realized Dale was talking again.

"-as far back as we have written history, there have been soul bonds. Every era, every civilization had a name for them. They've evolved with us. Perhaps they even pre-date us as a species, either way, it doesn't matter. The bond is perhaps the_ only_ thing in the world we _can _take at face value – the one thing we_ don't_ have to question. It's as natural as breathing," the old coot continued, eying him down pointedly before he added, "or at least it's_ supposed_ to be."

"I didn't ask for this," he managed, the words aired out like a challenge, figuring it was moot trying to deny it, but even he could hear the shake in them, the uncertainty. _Fuck. _

_When had everything gotten so god damned complicated?!_

"It's_ meant_ to be a good thing, son," Dale sighed, fixing him with the same look he'd leveled at Carl and Glenn the day before when he'd caught them reading comics under the RV, playing hooky from homework and chores.

"Yeah, well, you tell that to Mr. and Mrs. Suburbia over there," he snapped flicking a hand towards the clearing and the circle of the tents beyond. Angry in a way he had no real right to be considering the circumstances.

_How could she have settled like that? Especially for that piece of shit? If she'd just waited, maybe-_

But again, Dale seemed to see right through him, "It happens all the time. People deal with it one way or another," he replied, shaking his head emphatically as the sharp sound of raised voices rose up behind them.

"What was her alternative?" Dale pressed, calling him out as he turned away, spine stiffening when the old man followed him. "Wait alone for her entire life on the off chance you'd come strolling by? Hell, considering the circumstances, it's a miracle you two even found each other at all."

The pause that followed was awkward, stilted – hushed. Because, honestly, he didn't know what to say to that, all he knew was that it was getting pretty damn hard to keep ignoring what was happening – what_ they_ had. He hated it. He didn't understand it and frankly, he didn't want to either. But at the same time, he needed it, no, he _yearned_ for it.

And while the emotion was foreign, the feeling was almost _unbearable_.

Because she was his.

_His._

And he couldn't have her. Even if Ed wasn't around, even if she hadn't gone and gotten herself hitched and knocked up, she didn't deserve to have someone like him coming around and-

"What do you care," he hissed, slamming Dale's words right back at him as he got up in his face, the adrenaline from before was seeping back. And like blood rushing back into empty veins, it fueled his anger and uncertainty. It was familiar, grounding – _comforting_.

But Dale didn't budge an inch.

"I care because ever since you stepped foot in this camp you've been trying to throw away something you don't seem to care enough about to understand. I care because if you gave her a chance, if you gave _yourself_ a chance, I think you could be the best thing that has ever happened to one another," Dale returned, voice strong, animated and almost angry before it died down into something softer - throwing up his hands like he was done with him, even though everything else told him otherwise.

"I believe that there can still be some good in the world, even when it seems like everything else has crumbled. And _yes_, I believe that even if nothing of us survives but this, _the bond_, what it creates, at the end of the day, _that_ would be enough."

Heat prickled across his skin as he sucked in a breath of air. Uncertain of the last time he'd done so as his chest ached, lungs fluttering. The bruises underneath his shirt – _her bruises _– throbbed. He felt like he was five seconds away from just losing it, exploding, burning up into dust as the entire world crumbled around him.

He opened his mouth, about to say something, when he felt it, a small little tickle in the back of his mind – questioning but firm. _Carol._ His jaw clicked closed, the snap hollow and sharp as a trickle of warmth drip-dried across the surface of his mind. It felt like a balm, soothing and unfamiliar in both the best and worst of ways.

The crumbling foundations in the back of his mind stilled, shoring themselves up, like a house being levered up on stilts come hurricane season. It only took a moment, a handful of beats, before the presence retreated, cautious but not without feeling as the rivulet of thought and light he knew instinctively as her – _as Carol_ – faded.

Dizzy, he fell more than sat down, sliding down the back of a firm maple as Dale started towards him, looking like he was about to lend a hand before he thought better of it. Instead, he just hovered above him, clucking worriedly and pulling out his canteen as a part of him he'd never realized had been so empty, mourned the loss.

Well, fuck.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – So thrilled this is connecting with so many of you! There will be more to come! The next update will be on Friday!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more.

**Tied**

_**Chapter Four**_

His chest rose and fell. The sensation was harsh and sharp as he forced himself to concentrate on breathing. At this point it seemed as though anything else was too much work or too god damned confusing. He snorted, unsure of what he was more disgusted at, himself or the situation.

He accepted the man's canteen with a glare. It had remarkably little heat behind it, but he figured it would have to do.

"Well, hate to burst your bubble, old man, but _news flash, _I ain't no one's 'feel good' story," he finally replied, tipping his head back against the bark as the words came out hoarse. He figured it might have sounded better if he'd been on his feet and not feeling like the butt of some cosmic joke. But hey, he worked with what he had.

"If I were you, I'd start betting on a different horse."

If he could stand, he was pretty sure this would be the moment where he stalked off, shouldering his crossbow and disappearing into the woods for a few days to cool off. But since he couldn't, he was forced to watch as something in the man's face shifted, and suddenly he had a front row seat to probably the _one_ thing in the world he'd never wanted to see, let alone hear about.

"You think you got a raw deal getting the mark? Try _losing _it." Dale threw back, a hard edge entering his tone for the first time as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, yanking them open and taking his undershirt with it as he pulled the fabric back, baring his chest.

His back hit the maple with a thud, instinctively trying to get away as whatever anger he'd been holding onto shriveled. Because, there, high on his chest, just above the man's heart there was a red smudge - ugly and burned. It was seared into his flesh like a brand, the same place where his own mark now rested.

He leaned back, sick.

"But I thought-"

Something deep in him balked at the sight of it, caught in that terrible place that existed between wanting to look away and being unable to take your eyes off it. Because it was_ wrong_, wrong in every way something could possibly _be_ wrong in this world. It was impossible. He knew that. But that didn't stop him from knowing, from knowing _exactly_ what the man had lost.

His chest sparked in sympathy, mark aching with a brand of horror he knew was not chiefly his own. Because he could feel her, _Carol_, the same time as he felt the broken bond from the man in front of him - choking and overwhelming as it filled the encroaching space. He could feel their horror, their pain, loss and _fuck_-

"So did I," Dale replied ruefully, "when my Irma passed, I expected to go with her, wanted too, in fact. I was ready. Instead, I got left behind."

"The only reason she lasted so long with the cancer was because I was too selfish to let her go. The doctors weren't able to explain it, not even when I woke up, three weeks later in the same room, the same god damn hospital bed she'd died in," the old man continued, shaky but gaining momentum as one of his fingers brushed along the edge of the mark, thumbing it in a way that made him wonder what it'd been in the first place.

"It's one of those things they don't tell you. That sometimes you don't go together. That it isn't always like the stories, the legends," the man remarked, voice a singular mass of overarching pain he could practically _taste_ in the air, "but in the end, I think she knew, she talked like she did at least. She even made me promise, you see, if I didn't go with her. _To live_."

"I thought the worst thing was watching her fade, losing her a little bit every day, but I was wrong. I should have never made that promise. Never. Because _this?_ Living without her? It's _torture_," Dale finished, spitting out the last word through clenched teeth, like it was something poisonous, something foul that'd gotten stuck on his tongue.

He swallowed into the pause, ruined fists clenching and unclenching in his lap as he watching him breathe. The scar on Dale's chest fluttered and stretched as he fought for the composure Dale kept around him like a balm, a calmness he exuded in camp that kept the others from tearing into each other whenever things got tense.

He shivered - the gesture internal and small. The man was empty, he could see it now. He was living on nothing but memories and the new ties he'd forged here, with the blondes he'd picked up on the road, Andrea and Amy. He was a good actor, quick to smile. But he was hollow inside, like the best parts of him had been scooped out, peeled away from flesh and bone until nothing but the structure remained.

It was a reality that was more frightening than _any_ walker.

He felt like he should be saying something, feeling the uncommon urge to bite out something ultimately useless, something like: "shit luck," or maybe even "sorry," but the words got stuck in his throat. There wasn't anything he _could _say. There were no words in any language that could describe that kind of loss. The idea itself was unfathomable.

_It was a nightmare that'd never been given a name._

"But you know what? It was worth it, worth all the pain, all the _shit, _because she was _mine_. She was mine just as much as I was hers. And that is something I wouldn't trade, not for anything. Not even if it meant finding a cure for all this," Dale added, gesturing off behind them, to the quarry, the lake and the city sky-line that lay beyond.

"That is what she meant to me. That is what the_ bond_ is," he added, hiding the reddened scar from view with an unreadable expression as he caught his stare. The old man seemed to sink into himself as he did up the buttons, shaking his head and blinking pointedly before he continued.

"At the end of the day, no one can tell you how to feel. No one can tell you how to deal with it. That is up to you. I don't envy your situation, I won't deny that," Dale remarked, wiping at a skiff of sweat and adjusting the brim of his hat. "But believe me when I tell you that it is only going to get worse. This isn't something you want to fight, son. You'd have more luck trying to deny gravity."

"I didn't ask for this," he snarled again, this time just a little bit wounded. "She's got a kid – a life and I'm-"

"Better off alone?" Dale finished for him, with surprisingly little judgement. "Son, if that was _ever_ true, it sure as hell isn't anymore. Bond or no bond, we need each other."

He stood up, leaning against the tree for support, shoring himself up as what felt like all the anger he'd been carrying with him for the past – _forever_ - drained out of him like water from a sieve. It left him feeling empty. He shuddered, feeling as though he had nothing to lose in admitting it. After all, who was the old man gonna tell?

"I feel-" he started, cursing himself when he couldn't get the words out, regretting he'd even said them in the first place as Dale looked on encouragingly.

Dry heat rose, curling around his joints, infusing him from the inside out as he tried to shove it back. He could feel her worry – her uncertainty as it trickled through the hastily made walls he'd built the night he and Merle had arrived in the quarry camp

It was too much.

_She was too much._

"Conflicted? Out of control? Like your skin is suddenly two sizes too tight?" Dale supplied, retaking the reigns when the pause became awkward. The old man took a careful step forward when he didn't reply. But honestly, all he wanted to do was turn away, to throw him the cold shoulder and fuckin' forget about all of this. He'd been doing just fine until that asshole had seen fit to lay his hands on her.

"…On fire," he finished, words soft.

Dale's gaze was annoyingly understanding. "Of course, you're resisting the bond, you need to - well, _consummate_ it. Both of you. Acknowledge it at the very least. There's a reason why you two have the mark, you're-"

His response was fast and disbelieving.

"You think she wants that? When that asshole puts his hands on-"

"That's pretty much the point," Dale cut in, unapologetic to a fault. "That's how it works. It's up to you guys to figure out the rest," sighing as he screwed the cap back on the canteen, looking back towards the quarry as the sound of raised voices filtered through the trees.

_Sounded like someone was getting chewed out, personally he had his money on Captain America and his little woman, Olive Oil. They'd had it out more than once since he'd arrived._

"Besides, it isn't about that," the man continued, clearly not in the mood to mince words as he broached the space between them. The man's hand was paper-dry, yet strong as it clasped across his shoulder.

"It's about feeling _whole_," Dale replied gently, grip firming even as he tried to flinch away. The muscles under his skin twitched, unused to the gesture and the emotions that existed underneath as the old man fixed him with a look he didn't quite recognize.

"Son, you didn't know it until a week ago, but you've been waiting for her your entire life."

Carol didn't meet his eyes that night at dinner.

And honestly, he didn't blame her.

Either way, there were no more bruises after that.

He figured that for now, that was good enough.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Once again, thank you so much for your comments and support thus far; the next chapter should be up Monday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more.

**Tied**

_**Chapter Five**_

Merle had called her a church mouse when he'd first posed the idea that they should move on, that they should take what that could and drive off to greener pastures. But in his mind, nothing could've been farther from the truth. She was a bird. Not a mouse. Caged, but ready to spread her wings. She was a god damned metaphor in motion and he was stuck rewinding the credits.

He'd said nothing at first. But when Merle had tried to force him into it, badgering and heckling, he'd eventually snapped, putting his foot down for what was probably the first time in his entire god damned life. Telling him in no uncertain terms that if Merle even so much as _looked_ at them the wrong way, he'd go to Shane himself. Merle has been so put-off by his reaction that that had basically been the end of it.

Two days later they lost Merle in Atlanta.

Things happened in a rush after that.

They barely had time to breathe after the clusterfuck in camp before they hit the open road. They'd lost people. Good people. People he'd only just started giving more than a passing shit about and already Grimes was spouting something about finding answers – about heading to the CDC - and alright, _fine_, he could roll with the punches.

The moment they hit the highway, it was like a reboot. He could feel the change; it was fluid, ripe with the feeling that comes part and parcel with a fresh start. And if a certain lightness issued from the car in front of him, well, he couldn't deny it wasn't a nice change.

He'd kept close when they made it to the CDC. Not completely trusting the squirrely-looking Doctor that greeted them, offering them nothing more than words and the barrel of a semi-auto before he finally decided to take them in. There was something off about the place, something that tightened in his throat. It kept him on edge all the way down the elevator. It wasn't until the doc was walking down the hall, blabbering about blood tests and standard procedures that the bird asked if they were underground, and suddenly everything made a whole lot more sense.

She was claustrophobic.

Once he knew what it was, he felt the pull - the need for comfort and open space almost immediately. He could feel the building pressing down on him, suffocating him. She swayed dangerously in front of him, close, sweat glistening on her nape. He could almost _smell_ the panic attack building. And without really being aware of it, he closed his eyes, focusing – visualizing the open field just down the street from where he'd grown up.

It'd been overgrown and abandoned for as long as he'd lived there, but in the summer, during high season at early dawn, the fallow wheat turned into waves in the soft Georgian wind. He'd never seen the ocean, not unless it was on some movie on TV, but he figured, watching those stalks, sun-burnt and brittle in the morning breeze, was about as close as you could get to the real thing.

He didn't stop picturing it, keeping the image in the forefront of his mind until the rigidness in her posture lessened, slackening, if only slightly as she held tight to her daughter's hand.

She didn't say anything when he gestured for her to go first, keeping a watchful eye on the empty hall behind them as she slipped over the threshold – close enough that he could feel the hush across his skin. But the answering burble of tranquility that flowed through him as she passed was thanks enough.

It wasn't long before he realized that even that – a veiled look and an answering feeling was addictive. Worse still, he was past the point of caring. She was something he craved and didn't understand all at once. He wanted to smother her. _Drown in her_. Hate her and love her all at once. It was stupid, confusing, and overwhelming. So even when the party was in full swing, he kept his distance, haunting the side-lines despite the fact that she tried to look his way, tipping her head towards the empty seat across from her until Glenn had finally taken it.

Jenner had taken him aside after dinner before he could make his way to the showers, taking advantage of his good mood as the warm buzz of Southern Comfort hummed through his veins. The world had seemed pleasantly muted as he paused in the doorway, letting the man talk as the others stumbled into their respective rooms, some of them practically stripping before the doors were fully closed in their eagerness to get their share of the hot water.

"It's not healthy you know," the man opened, acting like it was some sort of conversational starter normal people came up with as he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

"I saw it, your blood work, _hers_. Your levels are identical, but spiked," Jenner clarified, crushing the paper into his chest with an awkward stab, something that stank of nerves and someone who was unused to hearing anything other than that sound of his own voice. _The doc had been alone too long, that was god damned clear._

"So?" he echoed, slurring a bit despite his best efforts as the paper crinkled, creasing as he made a fist.

To his credit, the doctor seemed taken aback by his answer, something unreadable passing across his features before the mask of professionalism slammed back down. "If you know about it, I shouldn't have to tell you."

His brow flicked upward, fixing the man with a withering glare as the bottle of Southern Comfort sloshed awkwardly. He thought about unfolding the damned thing and reading it, if only to get the egghead off his back. But since he was, after all, a Dixon, and because despite the possibility of a real bed with sheets and shit was in his future, his patience did have its limits. He ended up tossing it back at him without a second thought.

"Why don't you concentrate on fixing this whole mess instead of meddling in shit that don't concern you?"

The man's laugh was strained, resigned and without humor.

"I am afraid it's far too late for that."

He didn't know what the man meant until the next morning, and by then they were running again.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Stay tuned for the next chapter on Friday!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta in the sense of the soul bond but the general plot of the show remains the same, angst, UST and more.

**Tied**

_**Chapter Six**_

When they'd lost Sophia on the highway, he knew something was wrong long before he and T-dog made it back to the others. He'd tossed his rag over to him, trying to slow the worst of the bleeding when he'd felt it, her panic – her worry.

It reminded him of that game they made you play in kindergarten, the one with the two tin cans and the piece of string. He could hear her - faint and tinny in the back of his mind, but impossible to ignore. The connection between them was thin – fledgling – but it was enough.

He pushed T-dog in front of him as they'd hurried back. He'd ignored the man's confusion and grunts of pain, forcing him to run faster, weaving their way between wrecked cars and scattered suitcases, arrowing back towards her like a god damned boomerang.

And when her little girl had stumbled out of that barn a few days later, he'd felt her grief and loss like it was his own. Because, depending on how you looked at it, it _was _his own, in a weird sort of way.

He stayed with her that first day, a silent but steady presence when she'd locked herself up in the RV. He'd been angry when she'd refused to say goodbye, refused to acknowledge that the walker that had stumbled out that barn was even hers to begin with. But he'd stayed close all the same, shoring her up as best he could. Pushing that tight core of strength he kept locked up towards the bright little tendril that existed in the back of his mind, the bit of her that had slowly taken root in spite of himself.

His bird had had her wings clipped just as she'd been readying herself to take flight. He supposed he'd been angry on her behalf more than anything. It hadn't seemed right. Not after everything she'd suffered.

He shut down after that, struggling to deal with two conflicting sets of emotions that were just similar enough to be absolutely fuckin' grating when mashed together in the back of his skull. He tried to put up a wall, quite literally in fact, considering he'd set up camp by a crumbling out-building on the far side of the farm. He figured it was for the best, everyone else could go fuck themselves as far as he was concerned. He was done looking for people, done getting invested.

Only problem was it didn't stay like that – _she wouldn't let him_.

She trailed after him with those sad eyes until he yelled at her, scared her, lied to her, cursed her. But she knew better. She saw right through it. And she didn't give up. Looking back on it, the metaphor seemed almost too obvious to ignore. But naturally, at the time, he'd certainly done his best.

The next day they lost Dale. And honestly, shit only seemed to go downhill from there.

It wasn't until the winter, after they lost the farm that things really started to change. He liked to think they were getting there – wherever_ there_ was. Carol called it baby steps and that seemed fair enough to him. They were both a little broken, a little wounded. He figured things would come in their own time and until they did, he wouldn't trade this – _her_ – what they had for anything.

Because, ironically enough, the old man had been right, and frankly, neither one of them felt the need to rewrite the laws of gravity.

He allowed himself to wonder, every so often, safe in the privacy of his tent or alone on watch, about her mark. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know why _his_ was a Cherokee rose. But he couldn't help but wonder about hers.

Every bond was different. Some people had matching marks. Others had ones that fit together like puzzle pieces, just waiting to slot together. Some couples had different marks that ended up making sense in the grand scheme of things. While others seemed to have little or no connection, nothing to tie the two together save for that campy feeling of certainty they always talked about in the stories.

Because while neither of them publicly acknowledged it, the bird knew. He'd felt her eyes on him more than once when she thought he wasn't looking. He could feel her in the back of his mind, a subtle presence, insistent and soft, digging in with gentle claws like she was looking to stay. It was pervasive, changing - _good_.

If he were asked what was the biggest thing, the biggest change he'd had to deal with since the mark had appeared (other than getting used to having someone else in the back of his head), as weird as it was to admit, he'd probably say it was it was the little things. He was aware of more than he'd been before; he knew things he shouldn't, things he'd never learned, things she'd never said outright.

For example, he knew instinctively when she hadn't slept, that she liked caramel more than she did chocolate, satin more than she did silk. He remembered about half of the nursing program she'd taken the summer after high school. He was able to recall bits and pieces right up until Ed had reared his butt ugly head and told her she didn't have to worry about working, that he'd take care of her, treat her right, even as he'd forced her hand and made her give it up. She'd been pregnant with Sophia a year later and that dream had died the day they'd walked out of that little church.

Her smile had been genuine that day. The ones that'd followed had not.

It was all kinds of fucked up if you asked him. Hell, sometimes he even lost track of who liked what. He didn't know how many times he'd forgotten he actually _hated_ something she liked and ended up gagging into his plate around the fire, forced to remain aloof and unaffected until someone quickly changed the subject.

Then they'd lost her and T-dog in the tombs. And suddenly, all that irritation, all that confusion and complication he'd spent the last year grumbling about, seemed pretty god damned stupid.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – I know this chapter was short, but hey, there will be more to come and soon!

**A/N #2:** Just to clear up something people were wondering about last chapter, Ed did indeed die in the quarry camp like in canon. Consider this story one that follows the canon of the show from season 1-4 ( to the latest episode, at the moment). The only difference is the soul bond trope.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more.

**Tied**

_**Chapter Seven**_

She was alive, _weak, _but alive when he'd broken into the last cell. He'd yanked the door open, knife up, expecting – well, anything. But nothing prepared him for the sight of her, for the simmering heat that'd flowed back into his chest, warming him for the first time since she'd gone missing. He could feel her exhaustion, her hunger and thirst, but that didn't stop her from catching his gaze when he'd cupped her chin. She stared up at him like he was the best damn thing she'd ever seen.

And pride aside, he knew the feeling.

Something in him had settled when he'd gathered her up, cradling her into his chest as a purr of contentment struggled to free itself from the back of his throat. The feeling only heightened when she'd turned into him, burying herself into the curve of his chest with a sigh. The sound alone was like coming home - relaxing in a way that made him wonder when he'd gotten so god damned tense.

He carried her out of the dark, body humming, tingling with awareness as her warm breaths whispered across his chest. He'd nearly stumbled when one of her hands had curled around his side, bunching up the fabric just below his arm until a cold little hand pressed against his skin. He wasn't sure what to make of it, until she smiled into his skin. A flickering spark of color flared up in the back of his mind as they slowly leveled out, sinking deeper into the other as the tentative strands that marked a bond unfulfilled, tightened just a fraction.

He breathed easy for the first time in days.

Even when he left with Merle after the shit storm in Woodbury, he knew it wouldn't be for long. They were too far gone for that. Like planets caught in each other's gravitational pull, they would always end up orbiting back to one another. And he'd made his peace with that. _Sorta_.

Either way, that conversation with Rick had just been words. Words he'd tossed around out of desperation and that battered sense of loyalty that'd kept him at Merle's side growing up and all the fucked up crap that'd come after. He just needed time to think, time to figure out how he was going to have his cake, and eat it too.

Hell, even if he and Carol weren't, well, _complicated_, he wasn't leavin'. Not them. Because somewhere along the line, they'd become family – tighter than blood – _better_. They'd never left, never cast him aside or left him behind when they figured they could do better. It'd taken him a long ass time to figure it out, but apparently that was what families were _supposed_ to do in the first place.

Course, Merle wasn't helpin' none.

"You know, you know what's funny to me? You and Sheriff Rick are like this now," Merle bit out, crossing his fingers, all sweaty temples and nursing a mean look as he followed him through the brush. Still pissed off about what had happened on the bridge.

"Right? Hmm? I'll bet you a penny and a fiddle of gold you never told him we were plannin' on robbing that camp blind."

"Didn't happen," he threw back, whirling around to face him as Merle hit a sore spot. _We? _There had never been a '_we'_, it'd just been Merle flappin' his gums, crushing on the sound of his own voice until he'd finally told him to can it. Besides, there had only ever been a '_we' _when Merle wanted something, anytime else it was about seventy/fifty odds that Merle would have your back. He'd learned that shit from experience.

"Yeah, it didn't cause I wasn't there to help you," Merle replied, shaking his head like _he _was the one with the problem. "Have you forgotten where you come from, little brother? What we've done? What _you've_ done?"

"What the hell's the matter with you anyway? Ever since we stepped foot in that camp, it's like you've lost your balls. You have some sort of procedure done you haven't told me about? Decided to make it official, huh? That you're Sheriff Grimes little bitch?!"

He ignored the last bit, seizing on the meat of it before Merle could go off on a tangent.

"Oh, like when we were kids, huh? Who left who then!" he hissed, chest twinging, right in the center of his mark as a burst of worry and grief rippled through him. He blinked, eyes clouding as he worked through the tangle.

_She knew, _he realized. _Rick had just told her._

He had to get back.

"What! Huh! Is that why I lost my hand?!" Merle yelled; spit flying, getting all up in his face like he was expecting him to back down. To just grunt and look away, simmering in silence as his brother added yet another victory to his proverbial plate.

But he wasn't in the mood to play, not this time.

"You lost your hand because 'yer a simple minded piece of shit!" he hissed, tone waspish and hard, practically able to taste the man's surprise as Merle face went from disbelief to rage in less than a heartbeat.

"You little-"

If he'd been less distracted, he might have seen the punch coming. Either way, the awful sound of tearing fabric and the surprised huff that issued a moment later – lapsing off into an uncomfortable silence – said far more than any sucker punch ever could.

But it wasn't the welts and scars across his back that gave his brother pause. He knew that. It was the mark that stood out just below his heart. It was outlined in the boldest black now and growing stronger every day, a far cry from the faint outline it'd been that day in the old man's RV – with only his zippo for light.

He gave it to the count of ten before he moved, twisting on his knee as he picked himself up, fisting the front of his shirt before he finally dropped it. He tugged his vest closer to his skin as he buttoned up, hiding the mark from view as Merle opened his mouth, breathing hard.

"The church mouse," Merle started, more a statement than a question as his eyes remained fixed on where the mark had disappeared, pressed up against a swath of hot leather and sweat-slicked skin.

"I didn't know," Merle managed, voice just a hitch or two away from being unsteady as he watched him get to his feet. "I, I didn't know she was - that you two were…"

"Well, she is," he grunted, shouldering his bow, content to leave it at that as he stalked off, heading east like his life depended on it. He left his brother speechless, mind already a couple dozen clicks away as he prodded at the brilliant little tangle that hummed and pulsed in his mind's eye - hoping that somehow, she'd understand as he ground his heels into the soft Georgian clay and took off at a fast walk.

"Where are you going!?" Merle called, indignant, finally seeming to find his tongue as a hint of his old tone came flooding back.

"Where I belong!"

It'd felt a whole lot like a victory when Merle had eventually followed him, silent for the first time since Woodbury. And honestly, he couldn't deny it wasn't a nice change.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be more to come! Keep your trousers on! * Special thank you to **whowhatitwhich** for providing a link to the dialogue for the scene with Merle and Daryl in 3x10 "Home." - Please note that most of the dialogue is taken directly from the show, but with some bits added that are of my own creation.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more.

**Tied**

_**Chapter Eight**_

He was still kicking off on the adrenaline high when he arrived back in the prison, this time toting a brace of hares and an extra, a man by the name of Bob Stookey. He and Glenn had found him scavenging; wandering along a backcountry road that according to the map, led absolutely nowhere. He looked half-starved and piss over kettle if you asked him, but a survivor. He had to be if he'd made it this long. The man had a lean look to him, pinched, like he'd had the rug pulled up from under him and landed on his ass one too many times.

The man had answered simply when he'd told him about the prison, looking for a moment like he might refuse before something in him caved. He understood. Taking the chance on nothing but faith was a pretty ballsy move, but, like he'd told the guy later, it was probably worth the risk. They'd given him a choice, the long line of abandoned cars or the chance of a safe place, a home - _a purpose_.

He hadn't said anything when the man agreed, keeping his distance, but trailing after him all the same. He'd just shrugged, tossing him a bag of jerky before he clambered up into the back of the truck. He gave the man the decency of a few minutes privacy as he wolfed it down before he started telling him about the prison.

He took the stairs two at a time, pausing to snag a sandwich - some home-made flat bread type deal one of the older ladies had started making since Woodbury - as he made his way to their cell block. The curtain to her cell was half closed as he bounded up the stairs, shouldering his way inside.

"Hey Carol, you in here-"

He caught a flash of breastbone and a long swath of creamy skin before he flinched away, eyes firmly on the wall. There was a flurry of fabric behind him and out of the corner of his eye he could see her, holding her shirt up to her chest, bra stark against her freckles.

His cheeks burned hot. _Jesus shit._ He'd walked in on her changing.

"Sorry," he grunted. "Should'a knocked, I'll wait outside," tongue thick in his mouth, almost monotone as he turned on his heel, mark tingling.

He heard her suck in a breath, just a bit unsteady before she spoke.

"No, no it's alright. Come in, close the curtain," she replied, voice feather-light and tentative as his spine stiffened – surprised.

He blinked.

And for reasons beyond his understanding, he did as he was told.

He tried to keep his eyes on the wall as the shirt slowly lowered, having a hell of a time getting them to stay there as she tossed the dirty shirt over to the pile in the corner for washing.

"Judith just spit up is all, had to change," she explained, throwing him a sloppy little grin, nearly catching him in the act as he snuck a quick look - drawing the curtain.

_He wasn't a god damned saint after all. _

He felt reckless as his hand bunched around the fabric, no longer pretending to stare at the wall as she hummed thoughtlessly. He watched as she unfolded a shirt - royal blue with flared sleeves - before she shook her head, digging deeper in her suitcase. He couldn't keep his eyes off her.

_She was fucking gorgeous. _

He cocked his head, cheeks furnace hot. He ducked his head into his chin, forgetting she was probably waiting for a reply as he gave her a lingering once-over. She was host to a practical sort of beauty, the kind that makes more sense in the scheme of things, the kind that _lasts._

His mark just sparked, spitting and hissing under his skin – like a pool of gasoline a few seconds away from catching flame, everything was heavy, shot-through with nerves. _Christ._

When she sunk down on her haunches he nearly _whined, _swallowing hard as the curve of her spine arced appealingly, pale and freckle-flecked in the low light. Her jeans were slung low, highlighting the slimness of her waist and curve of her hip. And by this point he figured she fucking knew it too, _knew_ what she was doing to him. _Little minx._

Because while she seemed content to take her time - teasing, he was fucking_ dying_.

It was only when she straightened, shaking out a red shirt, the one with the lace back and the tie that fitted just below the chest, that he saw it. A dark little smudge of shading that stood out just above her heart - caught almost center between her breasts.

He sucked in a breath of air and choked on it, feeling a whole lot like he'd just been sucker punched in the gut. Because she_ did_ have a mark - _his mark_. On some level he knew she would, but seeing and believing were two different things. And personally, he'd learned the hard way that until the cards were down, nothin' was certain.

The shirt in her hands slackened as he leaned back against the wall, forgetting to cover his reaction as their gazes caught. Because while his mark – the one that represented her - was a Cherokee rose, Carol's was the_ thorns_. When you put two and two together it didn't take much to spell it out.

He got caught on it, internalizing the hesitant flutter as her chest rose and fell, taking in the mark and how it moved with the light – animated – despite the fact that everything he knew of the world told him that was impossible. The circlet of thorns was a tangle more than anything - all sharp edges and chewed up leaves. But it was sturdy, weathered, _strong_ - even handsome, in a warped sort of way.

She opened her mouth, cautious, hesitating for a handful of beats before she put her thoughts to voice. "Is it the same? Does it match? I-I never asked."

He dipped his head, a shallow affirmative.

He should have just left it at that. But before he could think it through, his hand came up, knuckling aside his leathers to bare his chest, showing her _his _mark as the shirt in her hands _twisted_. It felt right somehow how, like they were clearing the air – it was like breathing in the first whiff of spring after a long winter, sweet and overdue.

_She was so-_

His eyes snapped up, hard and piercing as he watched her take a step forward, then another. By the time she was a metre and a half away he could_ smell_ her, feel her. His eyes narrowed as he breathed deep, a predatory rumble airing out into the silence as instincts he didn't recognize rose up thick in the back of his throat.

_He didn't know what to-_

There were thoughts that told him to mark, that yearned to claim, protect and cherish even as she swayed towards him. Her eyes were wide, calm, but dilated – _ready_. Her scent a heady perfume that seemed to fill up the remaining space, expanding as the mark on his chest flared up like a brand.

_He couldn't!_

He jerked back before her fingers could connect, feeling the ghost of the movement - a hair's breath from his mark - as he stumbled backwards. Her expression fell, twisting from hope to something terribly similar to disappointment before she covered it, letting him go.

He'd never hated himself more.

He watched as she retreated, cursing himself for putting that look on her face again as she turned away from him, pulling on the shirt slowly as the silence stretched. Anger rose up, familiar, and he seized it. _This was her fault._

He'd had to do this, pull the plug. If he hadn't it would be all over by now. He wouldn't have been able to stop himself. He would have finished it, bonded with her, and after that it was curtains. Neither of them would take another. Neither of them _could _ever take another. She'd be fucking stuck with him.

Besides, he couldn't take the chance he'd wind up like Dale. That kind of wound wasn't something he could handle, he'd shoveled his fair share of shit and disappointment in his life, but he couldn't do that - _this_.

She didn't want him anyway, not outside of the bond. _He was doing her a favour really._

His mark just simmered, burning fitfully in clear disagreement.

Even to him, the excuse sounded weak.

She'd only just finished tying the back when she broke the silence, sending him a forced sort of smile that lifted the corners of her lips but didn't have the heart to reach her eyes.

"Sorry, Daryl, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

But he was already gone, rabbiting down the cat walk towards the side exit despite the fact that every cell in his body was screaming at him to do the exact opposite.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Woo! Nakedness! (Kinda!) There will be two more chapters after this, so we are nearing a close.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more.

**Tied**

_**Chapter Nine**_

"Man, you couldn't have waited till we got back?" he growled, pacing, mind going a million miles a minute as he tried to process what Rick had just said. _He'd left Carol, abandoned her. How he could have-_

"Until _Tyreese _got back?" Rick replied. The man's posture was on point – but the words were rehearsed, like he'd practiced this conversation in the mirror on the drive home. His hackles rose, something stunk here, and it wasn't the biters. This wasn't as simple as Rick was making it out to be, that was for god damned sure.

"I could've handled that," he rumbled, turning away, believing it even as his attention flipped, going inward – searching. But the bond was silent. _Still._

"Hey. _Hey_. She killed two of our own. She couldn't be here."

_He didn't believe it._

There was a ringing, tinny and persistent between his ears as Rick paused, fixing him with that look – the same look he'd gotten after he'd killed Shane, when they'd lost Lori. It was the look of a man who was struggling just to stay afloat. He cocked his head as the thought registered. Rick wasn't exactly in the best shape to be making any judgement calls, especially considering the past few days. Tyreese hadn't been the only one who'd lost it.

"She's gunna be all right. She has a car, supplies, weapons - she's a survivor," Rick added, but he barely let him finish. He seized on the coattails of the man's hesitation and threw Rick's words right back at him – calling him out.

"Stop saying that like you don't believe it!" he snarled, tone flinty - biting as Rick stood his ground.

_It wasn't her._

"She did it. She said it was for us. That's how it was in her head. She _wasn't_ sorry," Rick replied, gaze searching, looking for his acceptance, only he wasn't listening.

_He would'a known if she'd done it. Probably even felt it. _

In his experience, shit like that flowed through the bond like water through a sieve, it was almost impossible to block out. You couldn't control what came through, strong emotions, the odd passing thought, somehow it _all_ found its way through. Her grief after losing Sophia. Hell, she'd known about Merle long before the Triumph had kicked up a dust trail. She'd been waiting for him at the gates when he'd pulled up– blood stained and streaked with salt tracks. She'd known and she'd been there for him.

_But now she was gone. Alone. And he was stuck here._

The cat walk rattled under his feet.

"Man, that's her, but that_ ain't_ her," he finally replied, tone low and dangerous in a way that made Rick reel back, acting like he'd gone ahead and slapped him rather than closed the space between them.

He took a breath, lips twisting as he weighed the odds. She wasn't dead. He would have felt that, joined her more than likely. She was strong, his girl. _A survivor_. She'd come a long way from the broken bird that had stuck to the side-lines at the quarry. But you couldn't make it on your own anymore. None of them could. Especially not out in the wild.

Leaving her out there wasn't justice.

_It was a death sentence._

He took a moment to think on it, every bone in his body objecting at the delay, when he realized that even if she _had_ done it, his gut reaction remained the same. Karen and David had been good people – decent. But this was _Carol. _Even if she had ganked them, there_ had_ to be a reason, an end game. If Rick couldn't see that, well, tough shit. Wasn't like he hadn't gone dark side once or twice, hell even his boy had-

He shook himself, gritting his teeth as his hair fell over his eyes – hiding them from view. He turned on his heel, pacing. Honestly, he wasn't even thinking in terms of _if _she'd done it. He didn't fucking care. All he cared about was _her_ – about how he was going to get her back. There was no room for anything else.

"You had no right to drive her out," he finally spat, shoulders hunching, curling inward as he got right up in the man's face – all stale breath and old sweat before he advanced. "That ain't how we do things anymore, you said so yourself."

"She _killed_ Karen and David, in cold blood! She admitted it!" Rick exclaimed, blue eyes narrowing in the corners like he hadn't anticipated this, like he'd just assumed he'd lie back and take it like some little bitch. Not fucking likely. It would take more than a good story and some shoddy-ass detective work before that happened.

He wasn't sure which was more insulting, the assumption or the circumstances.

"That's not how we deal with our own," he grated, "thought we were _better _than that." The reference to the Governor aired out unpleasantly, filling up the space between them like something ugly.

Rage and disappointed betrayal rose, thick and acrid in the back of his throat as a dozen different emotions rose up at once. Only this time they were all his and she wasn't there to temper them – to balance him out just like she always did.

The sudden absence was chilling, wrong – _rotten_.

He couldn't feel her.

_He was alone._

The back of his eyes stung.

"She couldn't come back here, not after this – what she did. I wouldn't let her near-"

He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted crimson.

"Daryl, why are you being so-"

Rick's words cut off in mid-sentence when he suddenly doubled over, a fiery burst of heat issuing from his mark as the entire room seemed to spin – shifting on its axis as his back slammed into the railing.

"Daryl? _Daryl?!"_

He clutched his chest, nails sinking through the tired fabric, popping one of the seams it as a ripple of dry heat ricocheted. He blinked, eyes stinging as something tangible flickered through the maelstrom; it played out in the back of his mind like a memory, like an action scene straight from a Hollywood blockbuster – only in real time.

There was a glint of a knife.

A horrible face.

Snapping teeth.

A burst of adrenaline.

A push forward, then-

He felt the weight of her cry like it'd come from his_ own_ lips when she sunk her knife deep into the walker's skull, twisting until it went limp. It slid to the ground in a heap, only half a foot from where it'd pinned her - a house, solid brick with shattered windows at her back - before she wrenched herself away, running.

_She was alive._

He came back to himself slowly, blinking as the feeling tapered off. He winced as he levered himself up, mark aching but bearable. Feeling strangely as though he'd just missed the lightning bolt as the aftermath of the scene flashed across his eyelids, distorted and bright. He didn't remember closing them.

He took a moment and just breathed. Wishing fervently that Dale was still around. Dale would have known what to do. And not just about all this soul mate crap either. Though, getting some insight on that front right about now certainly wouldn't hurt.

Because he'd never heard of _anything _like this, to lapse that far into the other that you saw through their _own_ eyes? That shit wasn't normal. It couldn't be, even for them.

His eyes snapped open, remembering where he was, only to find Rick staring back at him like he'd never seen him before. For a fleeting moment he thought he could get away with it. Figuring he could make up some excuse, a headache or whatever. But a second later he watched as the puzzle pieces fit together across Rick's face and he knew the jig was up.

"But, you and her? You never said-" Rick started, looking like he'd just been clocked with a two-by-four as his free hand came up, still bandaged, massaging his forehead. And despite the circumstances, he knew the feeling.

"I didn't know," Rick offered, stating the obvious as he shot him a dark look. There was just enough heat to it that the man actually flinched – having lost the dead calm – the surety that had been there only a few moments before. And while that by itself was gratifying, it wasn't exactly what he was looking for.

"Would your decision have been any different if you did?" he asked, bowing his head as he leaned up against the railing, skin still tingling, a buzz of raw nerve endings and static as he tried to sort through the jumble. The bundle of threads that existed in the back of his mind - the one's he'd labelled as _hers _a long time ago - ebbed and flowed, muted but reassuring.

The pause that followed was awkward.

He broke it with a grunt.

"What are we supposed to do about those two girls?"

"I told her we'd look after them. I haven't told Tyreese yet. I don't know how he's gonna take it," Rick answered, tone softer now, watching him out of the corner of his eye with a newfound understanding – like he was trying to get a handle on something he didn't quite understand. But he just shook his head, pushing off from the railing as he made to speak.

"Let's go find out."

Less than half an hour later, the Governor rolled up to their gates.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter and this story will be at close! Stay tuned! _*****_ Thank you to **yearningflush**, **whowhatsitwhich**, and **alyriaa** for their help with transcribing dialogue for the Rick and Daryl scene from the episode. - Please note that most of the dialogue is taken directly from the show, but with some bits added that are of my own creation.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more. *****Please note, this fic is canon complaint up until the end 4x14 "The Grove" – after this is likely AU in terms of what will happen in 4x15 & 4x16 – the series finale. This chapter contains spoilers from the 4x15 promo.

**Tied**

_**Chapter Ten**_

The scent of the burning cabin stuck with them, sinking deep into their clothes and hair no matter how many miles stood between them and the blaze. They walked, ate - slept where they could. Days passed this way.

He felt disconnected, like a phone gradually running out of juice – the signal fading as the low battery hits critical. The question of what happened when that battery trickled down to zero kept him awake long after his time on watch ended. Neither one of them slept through the night anymore anyways.

On some level he was aware that Beth knew something was wrong, something other than what was on the surface. But polite as she was, she didn't press. Not past getting him to admit that he actually gave a damn – that he felt responsible –_ guilty_ – guilty for every single person they'd lost. For her old man, for Rick, Glenn, littleasskicker, and yeah – even Carol.

He felt guilty that he hadn't been there, that someone hadn't been there to speak for her when Rick had dumped her in suburbia. Guilty that she was out here, alone, guilty that she didn't know what had happened, that they were scattered – separated. Or maybe she did? Could she sense what had happened? Did she know something was wrong? Had she felt it? Had she seen it, through him?

What if she'd tried to go back? What if she'd come home only to find the prison overrun? Shot through with holes, a walking graveyard?

He'd tried to close off, to shut down, brain pulling itself in a dozen different directions at once. And as a result, he and Beth had gotten off to a rocky start - what with the yelling and moonshine. He'd been busy doing emotional triage and she'd been trying her best to hold on to what hope they had left.

They'd gotten on like gasoline and a lit match until that drunkin' screeching match at the cabin, but eventually, Beth's hope fueled the ragged tatters of his own. And silently, he let it build. The Greene family seemed to be infectious like that. They had a habit of being too kind for their own good – too pure. Beth had more of her old man in her than she realized.

Hershel would've been as proud as hell - moonshine and all.

* * *

><p>He got flashes of her every once in a while, just enough to know she was still ticking. Mostly they were just impressions, emotions - grief, surprise, laughter, horror, sadness. He tried his best to sort through them, unable to shake the feeling that even his attempts were inadequate. What he did get was muddled, a wordless jumble that came to him out of order and unfocused. He wasn't good at this sort of shit, at emotions and words. That had been <em>her <em>strength.

But he cultivated that hope in the back of his mind regardless. He pushed it through the bond, best he could, inching it towards that delicate little tangle that hummed and blushed in the back of his mind.

He told himself that knowing she was alive was enough, for now.

Things got better after that, at least for a little while. He and Beth found a place. A caretaker's cottage on the edge of a cemetery, filled to the brim with everything a white-trash, back roads redneck could ask for. It was clean - bright. Beth's happy grin had been a light in the dark, well worth the piggy-back and the hassle of her twisted ankle as they settled down for a good old fashioned pantry-raid.

Hey, it was the end of the world, might as well live a little, right?

_Wrong._

He'd let his guard down.

Now Beth was gone and it was all his fucking fault.

He ran after her though, _for miles_, tracking the tire treads through the leaves until he came upon a crossroads. The wind had obscured the trail. He didn't know which way to go. Which way they'd taken her. They'd left her bag, just taken her and sped off. He didn't ask himself why, he _knew _why.

There weren't any good people left any more.

Just the shit.

Just the grunge you scrape off the bottom of the barrel to get to the woodwork - the people playin' pretend.

Sooner or later the good get taken.

They _always _get taken.

The bond was silent when he folded, falling to the ground in a tangle of burning calves and chilled sweat. His vision fuzzed over, eyes stinging as his hair hung down in stringy clumps, soaked through with sweat. He couldn't feel her. He tried, reaching out. But there was nothing. She wasn't there.

_Carol._

* * *

><p><em>"C'mon fella', suicide is stupid. Why hurt yourself when you can hurt other people?"<em>

It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that the men who'd cornered him at the crossroads were rotten. But considering the circumstances, he'd decided to go with strength in numbers. In the beginning, he wasn't sure what their deal was. Were they freeloaders, hunters, drifters? Were they el solo or part of a larger group? Had they seen something? Did they know who took Beth?

The truth ended up being much simpler, they were assholes – _users_. They had no loyalty to each other beyond a flapping pie-hole and a gun-arm to take watch while the others slept. They reminded him of his pa – of things best left buried. He didn't bother learning their names – especially the two that didn't talk worth a damn – horse-face and Harley something or other.

He planned on cutting ties that night. But Joe – 'Mr. I've been around the block and seen some shit' had just fixed him with a smile – staring him down like he was darin' him to try. So, he decided to wait, biding his time.

_"You know, I bet there's a bitch, got you all messed up, am I right? You walking around here like a dead man, you just lost yourself a piece of tail, must of been a goodin'. Tell me something, was it one of the little ones, cause they don't last long out here."_

The next night, a few hours after Cupid had tried to claim his rabbit, Cupid and bandana-head tried to slit his throat in his sleep. It'd just been the four of them, with horse-face and Harley off on a night run for water. They thought he was asleep. But the truth was he hadn't slept for nearly three days. He was jumpy and on edge, and when they crept up, k-bars reflecting the light from the campfire, he'd been ready for them.

He whirled, knife slashing across bandana's throat before the smaller man could react. He sent him reeling backwards – fountaining red – clutching at his throat as Cupid yelled. The man's long-limbs flailed, using the higher ground to his advantage, knife arcing downward. But before the thrust could connect he buried his buck knife deep into the man's thigh and _twisted._

The fucker had squealed like a stuck pig before he'd reached around and gutted him – showing him his insides just before the lights went out. He dropped him like the sack of shit he was – entrails steaming.

He was on his feet, crossbow up before the other one – Joe - could untangle himself from his bedroll. They faced each other down across the fire – assessing. The man's eye teeth gleamed in the low light. His smile anything but kind as their breathing rose up, harsh in the sudden hush.

"Well, what can I say?" Joe began cocking his head, seeming to settle on an apologetic sort of detachment before he shrugged. The man fixed him with a look, like Yoda going dark side, as his eyes - the same ones that'd probably charmed more than a few back country girls off their feet in his hay-day - promised forgiveness.

"…Can't choose your friends, these days."

His eyes narrowed, thinking about Carol, about Rick, Beth and Glenn. He thought about Tyreese, Hershel, Lori, Dale, Andrea - every single _fucking _one of them as red hazed across his vision. _Liar._

"Yes, you can."

The man had actually looked surprised when his finger slammed home - arrow piercing clean through the asshole's left eye socket before it kept going. It buried itself so deep in the tree behind him that he figured leaving it there was meant to be.

The world didn't need any more garbage, after all.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Okay, I lied, one more chapter. Eeesh.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is a 'soul bond' or 'soul mate' style story. To my knowledge no one has taken a crack at this particular trope in the fandom, so this is more an experiment than anything. In this particular version, I am using a 'tattoo' or 'mark' to show how a soul bond presents itself.

**Warnings:** *Contains: soul bond/true mates/soul mate trope, illusions to domestic violence, spoilers for the first three seasons, adult language, adult content, AU after the fall of Atlanta, angst, UST and more. *Please note, this fic is canon complaint up until the end 4x14 "The Grove."

**Tied**

_**Chapter Eleven**_

He wandered after that, alone. He told himself he was looking, looking for Beth, looking for the others. But the truth was he was just walking. Stumbling down the blacktop, through the trees, across lawns, fields - just like every other brain dead asshole in the entire god forsaken state.

He tried to sleep – climbing up into the eaves of a house on the edge of some town, the roof half shaded by an overgrown willow. When he woke up, it was still light out – or maybe he hadn't slept at all. He couldn't tell. He forced himself to choke down a can of creamed corn and keep moving – stomach roiling when he remembered something Carol had said a few days before the clusterfuck with Rick and the Governor.

Judith would be moving up to solid food soon. If she wasn't-

It took another couple days before he managed to get his head screwed on straight.

He decided to double back. If there was any sign of the others, any hint they'd been out this way, perhaps he'd still be able to recognize it. So he doubled down, he put his ass to the grass, salvaged what was left of his balls and shouldered his way through the green.

If they were out there, he'd find 'em.

* * *

><p><em>Glenn, go to Terminus - Maggie<em>

He'd been walking along the tracks when he saw it. Hell, he nearly put a rib out of place when he caught a flash of red against the dull sheen of the electrical box they'd been smeared across.

His heart leapt in chest as he jumped the ditch and hurried over. His hand hovered just above the dried blood. _Maggie._ Maggie had made it. It wasn't much, but it was something. If Maggie had made it, the others could have too. Rick. Carl. Michonne. He already knew Carol was alive, somewhere. Seemed almost too good to be true that there were more of them out there. _More survivors._

He dropped down on his haunches, inspecting the walker with the torn up belly. He could see the scene playing out in the back of his mind. She'd killed a walker – he squinted – no, _two_, and scrawled out the message with the only thing available, choosing the biggest flat surface closest to the tracks.

Had she known Glenn had made it out, or just hoped? Was she with any of the others? The ground was too disturbed too tell. There had been a fight or at least a struggle while she'd been here, then a small group of walkers had stumbled through sometime after. Seemed like a whole hell of a lot of traffic for an area that seemed so deserted.

He looked around, casing the joint. From the state of the body and the tracks littered around it, he figured the walker had been cut open about two, maybe three days ago.

Maggie had been _alive_ three days ago, alive and with a destination in mind.

He arched a brow as he straightened, sore muscles protesting the strain, eyes lingering on her message – all uneven letters and drip-dried gore.

_Terminus? What the fuck was Terminus?_

* * *

><p>The next day he found a wooden sign nailed to an electrical pole by the tracks – there was a map, a route. Terminus was a place. Probably the same place they'd heard on the radio in the car on their way back from that medicine run for A-block.<p>

_Sanctuary for all. Community for all. Those who arrive, survive._

He memorized the route, hitching his pack higher around his shoulders before he turned on his heel and headed back the way he'd came. If the others had seen this sign, he'd bet a two-six of back bar bourbon and all of Merle's gold-fillings that they would have tried for it too. It seemed like as good a bet as any. A slim chance was still a chance after all.

He tried not to think about Beth - about who'd taken her. He tried not to think about where she was, about what they might be doing to her right now or-

He couldn't.

Not now.

Not when he knew for sure that he wasn't the only one.

That it was just miles and days that separated them now.

Beth had been right to hope.

For all the good it'd done her.

* * *

><p>He followed the tracks, careful as the brush deepened, gradually leaving civilization behind. The woods were thick here, old, undisturbed. He couldn't help but notice the silence. Before all this, back before Wildfire and the end of everything, he'd gone out of his way to keep it like that - to strike off in the brush whenever the world and Merle were gettin' just a bit too loud. But now, as fucked up as it was to admit, he found little comfort in it. The silence was just heavy now, oppressive – <em>singular.<em>

It made him miss that sweet little voice humming along under her breath as they walked.

It made him miss the late night flutter of pages as Carl read his comics in the dark.

It made him miss a whole lot of fucking things. Things he had no business missing.

Merle's voice was quick to butt in - old memories wriggling out of the lock-box in the back of his mind, the one he'd been keeping them in since he'd had to put Merle down outside of Woodbury.

"_Ya getting' soft on me Darlina? Is that it? Why don't you just curl up beside the tracks and make it official, huh? Wait for one of those dumb fucks to do the world a favor?"_

His lip curled, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he wiped his hand across his face, smearing dirt and sweat across his skin as he squinted down at the tracks – trying to pick up Maggie's trail.

He ignored the voice as it nattered on, talking about limp-dicked pussies and how even leavin' home to try for Atlanta and the safe-zone had been a mistake. How if they'd switched places, if _he'd _died in Merle's place, Merle would've been half-way out of the state by now. Goin' places. Doin' shit.

It took a while, but eventually he wrestled the thoughts back, slamming the lid as the ghosts of his brother, his old man and every other failed father figure he'd ever had the displeasure of knowing cut off in mid-word.

And if he flipped a finger at the world at large as Merle's voice aired out in the back of his mind, well, no one was around to notice.

* * *

><p>The moment he stepped into the pecan grove, he knew something was up. He'd taken a detour off the tracks when he'd noticed some scuffed up sod and trampled brush – his instincts dead on when he nudged the body of a walker – dead and stuck in between the tracks. An emotion he didn't want to put a name on rose in the back of his throat as he looked around - the kill was fresh. No more than a day old.<p>

_Whoever had done it might still be around._

He picked up three – maybe four separate boot prints that led off into the forest and followed them. It didn't take him long to realize that two of the prints were smaller than the others – they had kids with them. _Had Lizzie and Mika made it out? _

He passed through the treeline, eyes fixed on the trail. He cocked his head, trying to make sense of the strange way some of the tracks looped in on each other, almost like someone had been runnin' in circles – one of the girls playin' maybe - only to be nearly _bowled over_ by the feeling.

He grunted, one hand pressing hard against his mark as the bond _throbbed _– _aching. _He could feel her - she was all over this place. Her scent was grief and a thousand different shades of it. He whirled in place, taking it in, the little house, the scent of split oak, dust, and-

He shuddered as another ripple of _dark _rolled over him, heavy like an iron weight across his shoulders as a flash of blood red across pale skin got stuck behind his closed lids. Something bad had happened here. Something so bad the memory of it had lingered – tangible to him through the bond as her memories mingled with his.

It was like getting stuck in a god damned echo.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to scrub the feeling – the images – the smells – away and focus on what was in front of him, what was going on in the here and now.

There were four graves.

Two old.

_Two fresh._

He sighed, letting his crossbow drop, ignoring the puff of dust it kicked up as he straightened the last cross in the row. He shook his head, jamming the resignation aside in favor of stalking across the yard, grabbing the shovel someone had left propped up against the front porch.

There had to have been _someone_ left alive after whatever the hell had gone down – they wouldn't have been buried otherwise – but still, he had to know.

He started digging.

* * *

><p>She came to him in his sleep sometimes, all gentle tips and smooth fingers. They carded through his hair, scratching across his scalp until the gentle waves turn heady and the feel-good <em>scritch-scritch<em> evolved into something darker - something that tented his jeans and made him long for something more. It made him wonder what she'd feel like, splayed out underneath him, around him. And more than anything, that gave him hope.

She was out there somewhere.

He could feel it.

His girl was comin' for him…

* * *

><p>"<em>Would it kill you to have a little faith?"<em>

Terminus turned out to be an abandoned railway station surrounded by fences and over-turned semis. Or at least it _had _been; _now_ it looked like someone had taken a flat iron to it. He shouldered his crossbow, cresting the last rise. The sun was in danger of setting as the last rays of afternoon sun had him shading a hand over his eyes as he surveyed the worst of the damage.

The front fences had been torn open, toppled; it seemed like the inner ones were intact, but the primary defenses had been breached. The metal sheeting they'd used to reinforce the main gates was charred, all jagged edges and premature rust. They'd been attacked, and not just by walkers. Whoever had hit this place had hit it _hard_, and they'd had the numbers and firepower to do it.

He kicked at the gravel, sending a blood stained tin can – mushroom soup – skittering across the blacktop. Huddled shapes lay scattered across the yard, the dull sheen of bone visible even from the distance as dropped suitcases and abandoned toys peeked out of the long grass. There were more shapes, stretching out along the seemingly endless line of canvas tents that had been set up closer to the front gates, almost as if they'd taken on more people than the squat, ugly buildings in the background could hold.

Whatever Terminus had been, it'd fallen a long time ago

"_Faith 'aint done shit for us."_

He closed his eyes, refusing to let the sting collecting in the corners spread any farther. He waited for the little voice in the back of his head to start up again, to lash out with 'I told 'ya so' and 'you should'a known better,' but it didn't happen. Even his memories of Merle remained silent.

He was about to turn away – planning on skirting around the perimeter and back to the tracks on the other side to see if Maggie and whoever she was with had decided to keep walking or try their luck deeper in the woods - when he heard it. _Voices._

It was a muted little burble of sound that'd probably just been the wind and sleep deprivation talking, but he skidded around on his heel regardless, boot soles scraping through the coal-littered gravel with a discomforting scrape.

_In for a fuckin' penny, right?_

* * *

><p>When he caught sight of them, huddled around the campfire, safe in an enclosure that seemed to have escaped the brunt of the damage, he thought – for a handful of moments - that he'd finally lost it.<p>

He watched them through the trees, keeping to the shadows as Sasha said something, dangling a piece of canned fruit in front of Bob's face with a laugh. He shook himself, blinking, unsure if what he was seeing was actually there. Half convinced he'd been on his own for too long, gone too long without sleepin' again, _anything_.

But when he opened his eyes again they were all there – hell there were even a few extras. A woman with shoulder length black hair and a hesitant smile, a red-head with dog tags, a sweet looking honey in booty-shorts, and a man sporting a mullet and a sour expression as Judith tried her best to make a grab for the walkie-talkie he was fisting like his life depended on it. The newbies stuck to the side lines, uncertain of their welcome but joining in on the fun nonetheless.

Rick, Michonne, Carl, Tyreese, Glenn, Maggie, even Beth– somehow – and really, he was sure there was one _hell_ of a story there. Bob, Sasha and_ fuck_ – it _had_ to be true. They'd made it. Somehow, they'd _all_ made it.

He sucked in a breath, tryin' to get used to the idea before-

"Daryl!"

It was Beth that let loose the cry, deeply throated yet high enough in pitch that it made his head cock. He caught a glimpse of her in motion, leaping to her feet as everyone turned – jumping up – all Cheshire grins and unbelievable warmth.

He craned his neck, taking one step forward, then another, throat tightening as a pot clattered dully in the background, and somehow, he knew it was her. There was a flash of a silver-grey, the quick _swish-swish_ of boot soles singing through the long grass before she pushed out from behind Glenn and Maggie.

And just like that, he swore his soul went _still_.

Distantly, he was aware of a thud, of the vibration of metal humming through his skin as his bow hit the ground, smacking against his shin as the dish towel she'd been holding slipped through her fingers. He couldn't help but grin – crooked and showing far too many teeth - when her mouth opened and closed, looking for a moment like she might say something before she shook her head.

Her blue eyes were wide and shining when she started towards him. Closing the distance between them long before he realized he was already runnin'.

* * *

><p>They ended up meeting somewhere in the middle, uncertain but too eager to be self-conscious when he caught her in mid-leap, gathering her up as long legs wrapped tight around his waist. Pleasure punched through him as delicate fingers started relearning every line, every dip and hollow as he just mouthed her name – helpless and nearly undone - into the curve of her throat.<p>

Her hands were fisting tight in his hair as they spun, caught up in each other's momentum until he hiked her up, taking her weight as something deep within inexplicably _mended_.

His mark simmered high on his chest, a burning brand of arcing gold when her lips_ finally_ pressed against his. It was awkward and stupid and just a little bit bloody when one of her teeth nicked his lower lip, splitting it right down the center as he kissed her back. But frankly, he wouldn't have had it any other way.

"I've got you," he murmured, nuzzling into her shoulder as she burrowed into him, tying them together as fully as they were in mind – until it was almost impossible to tell where he began and she left off.

A rattling purr rose up – heady and graceless in the back of his throat at the thought. But there'd be time for that later. A whole lot of that if he wasn't mistaken. The bond just thrummed, glowing bright between them as his mark pulsed – fast paced and affirmative.

He practically choked when she wriggled against him, hips grinding down _just so _as every good feeling he'd ever had, and then some, rose up to fill the space. It nearly muted the sound of the others as Glenn yelled something about getting a room as Rick's easy chuckles rolled out – slow like a stray tom-cat stretchin' in a sun beam – the sound itself precious and sorely missed.

"I got you first…" she returned, grinning into his hair and laughing as Judith burbled indignantly behind them, making grabby hands for the both of them as the girl cooed and squirmed in Carl's arms.

And while he had no idea what that even meant, he couldn't help but laugh with her, nearly drowning out the cheers and wolf whistles when they finally lost their balance and collapsed in a heap across the dry Georgian dust. Their laughter rolled out like nothing else mattered, sinking down into the very heart of him as something – bone deep and permanent - _finally_ slotted into place.

_And he'd be god damned if Dale hadn't been right after all._

He knew she deserved better. And honestly, he was still waiting for her to realize it. But even when they'd still had the prison and every morning she'd come out of that cell, the one right beside his – all spiked feathers and a sleepy smile - his mark would just _thrum_ and he'd forget.

If he was a better man he'd tell her he didn't want her, that this was all some big mistake. He'd let her find someone else, someone that could love her the way he figured she ought to be. But he didn't. He didn't have it in him to lie, not even for her. He was too selfish for that – too flawed.

He didn't know if he'd ever be able to say it, those three little words that'd never seemed to fall from anyone's lips when he'd been growing up. He didn't know how to go about saying how he felt or what she meant to him. But perhaps that was the point. The reason all this had happened in the first place. Because in a weird, ass-backwards sort of way, he didn't have to - _she knew._

_She'd always known._

"Welcome home," he murmured. He rubbed his face into the crook of her neck, soaking her in as her hands gentled across his skin, dirt and blood splatter smearing, until her hand pressed up again his mark.

He could feel it, pressed palm up across his skin and despite how stupid it probably looked, he couldn't help but do the same. His crooked fingers unfurled just above her breast, thumbing the edges of her mark as their breaths turned shallow. He figured that at this point, it would be a near thing if he_ ever_ ended up lettin' her go.

She smiled into his skin as the rest piled around them, all back slaps, gentle hands and awkward half-hugs as everyone started talking at once. And it was in that moment, despite the enormity of what they'd lost, that he knew they were going to be alright.

All of them were.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete. Thank you for all your reviews, comments, and support. I am so glad this story resonated with so many of you! Thank you for indulging my randomness and letting me be the first to bring this trope into the Walking Dead fandom. *****You might have noticed that this chapter was fragmented. This was done on purpose; I wanted to detail how this separation was _really _starting to wear on him and not just in terms of the soul bond. I think that season four has proven that Daryl doesn't want to be alone anymore. He's not a one man wolf-pack anymore and he knows it.


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